


when it’s not too late for us to pretend

by problematiquefave



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Background Alicia Clark/Jake Otto, Canon Era, F/M, Moving In Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-12-07 09:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18232757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematiquefave/pseuds/problematiquefave
Summary: There's a small reprieve between Jeremiah's death and the integration of the Nation. In that time, the Clarks move into the big house, but really, it's just Madison and Troy there.





	when it’s not too late for us to pretend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kingstoken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingstoken/gifts).



It only makes sense, when the dust has settled and the dead are buried, that Madison and her children move into the big house on the hill.

The beds they have been sleeping in — the barracks they’ve called their home — are needed. People are coming. They need places to sleep, places to call their own. And it’s not like Nick and Alicia have been using theirs much. Alicia spends her nights curled up with Jake; Nick spends them chain-smoking on the steps of the adobe. Really, it’s just Madison that’s left in the barracks, and they’re far too large for her. Just like the big house is far too large for Troy, even when you count the ghosts that haunt him.

There’s time between when she presents Walker with Jeremiah’s head and when the Nation arrives at the gates. Time to pack and prepare, time to say goodbye and make peace with the future. It’s in that time that Madison and her children gather the few things they have and carry it up.

Jake’s waiting on the porch for them. He smiles, bright and wide, and Madison would almost think he’s happy to see him there. Or maybe he really is. What can she say? She’s a jaded woman.

The actual pre-existing occupant — because this isn’t Jake’s home, not anymore at least, not when he has own house on a hill — is nowhere to be seen. Wary eyes search the home as they enter but just as she comes to the conclusion that he’s gone (sulking, probably), Jake says, “Troy’s out. Took the morning patrol.”

Madison still guesses he’s sulking but she doesn’t let her disbelief show. “He knows we’re coming, right?”

She doesn’t want to be a surprise guest in Troy’s home. He’s too volatile to predict well but he does have a habit of acting like a feral animal. And feral animals don’t like intruders in their dens.

“Of course,” Jake answers. “He’s happy to have you all.”

It’s quiet, probably too quiet for Jake to hear, but Nick scoffs beside her. She’d scold him if she didn’t agree with him. Still, the deal is sealed, and this is their new home.

“Show us to our rooms?” she asks Jake and he leads the way.

 

 

There’s four bedrooms total. Jake gives his old bedroom to Alicia which is the same as not giving it away at all. The guest bedroom goes to Nick; it looks picture-esque save for the thick layer of dust that coats every surface. It’s unsurprising that the Ottos didn’t host guests. The last one, Jeremiah’s old bedroom, goes to her.

She stands in the doorway, scanning the room. Her lips twitch. What is she expecting to see? Jeremiah? His rotting head? His angry ghost? _She didn’t even kill him_. She planned to, yes, but as she stared him dead in the eyes, Nick snuck through the door and didn’t hesitate. He raised the gun, he pulled the trigger, he didn’t even blink. But whether she had or had not, as were the case, guilt had never been apart of the equation. Jeremiah _deserved_ his death. He _deserved_ everything he got — he deserved _more_.

Still, the thought of sleeping in his bed makes her stomach churn.

Turning back, Madison steps into the hallway and flags down Jake. “Do you have fresh sheets?” she asks, trying to smile as he blinks at her. “It’s just—”

Jake shakes his head. “No, I get it. And I think we have some down in the basement. Might smell a bit funky but they haven’t been used in a while.”

“Thank you.”

She watches him go. While the temptation to stay in the hallway is strong, she shoves it down and slips back into the room. She sets the bag of her meager stuff on top of the dresser. She opens the top drawer, pulling against the resistance, and peaks inside. Clothes, the cap of a bottle peeking out from beneath some socks. She sighs.

She walks away from the dresser, towards the bookshelf. The books are fine — a mish mash of material, from non-fiction to well-worn scifi paperbacks. She’s more of a thriller person. Her eyes catch on a picture frame. She picks it up, holding it to the light so she can get a better look, her lips pressing together as she does.

It’s three people. Jeremiah, Jake, and Troy. Jake is dressed in graduation robes with a cap on his head and a diploma in his hand. He has his other arm around his father who’s dressed in a approximation of formal wear. Troy hadn’t even bothered, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. While Jake looks over the moon and Jeremiah is trying to smile, Troy’s expression is dark and sullen. She wonders how long ago this was taken.

A knock on the door drags her out of her reverie. She shoots a quick glance at the door as she calls, “Come in!” Just as quickly, she looks back at the bookshelf as she sets the frame down where she found it.

“Thanks, it’s appre—” She stops, blinking as she lays eyes on who entered. It’s not Jake. “You’re back from patrol.”

“11’o’clock — shift ended, Blake and Paul are on duty now,” Troy replies.

She nods. Holding out her hands, she says, “Good to see you’re keeping busy.”

“I’m not an idle person.” He passes her the sheets. As Jake has warned her, they do have a distinct smell but they don’t appear to be stained or moth-eaten. They’ll do.

It’s strange to turn her back on Troy — it sends shivers down her spine, raises the hair on the back of her neck. She’s always known not to but they’re living together now. This is his home and he’s letting her and her children in. She needs to show at least the semblance of trust. If she can’t even turn away from him to set down some sheets then how could she possibly sleep under the same roof as him?

She inwardly scoffs.

Madison isn’t sure she _can_ sleep under the same roof. Last time she woke up with a knife to her neck.

“Do you need help?” he offers.

“If you would…” She motions to the bed. He reacts in a heartbeat, beginning to strip the covers and sheets without a word as Madison sorts through the ones from the basement. She waits for him to finish, nodding at him as he collects them in his arms and starts out the door. A breath of relief escapes her.

 

 

Madison had thought that living with Troy would mean living with his ghosts. The dozens of people he’d killed and hurt, the atrocities he’d committed. What she didn’t expect was how much like a ghost _he_ was. He was scarce even when he was home. The creaking floorboards were the only things that ever gave him away. She’d catch brief flashes of him but then she’d blink and he’d be gone. He lived his life elsewhere, creeping around his own home in the dark hours on tip-toes.

It made things easier, she supposes.

There were no awkward conversations over dinner, no discussions about bathroom rules, and no pretending everything is _fine_ and _dandy_. She didn’t have to comfort or play counselor to his grief, didn’t have to lie to his face about what really happened to his father — keep up the charade that he sacrificed himself for the ranch with a bullet to the temple instead of stumble to his grave like a drunken, belligerent _coward_.

But at the same time… It feels strange. When she goes to make herself coffee in the morning, she stares at a family picture on the fridge. Dead dad, dead mom, distant brother, and then… Troy. That this is his house is not up for debate yet she’s only the one in it.

And _really_ — she’s the only one in it. Alicia is almost always with Jake. She’s not going to ask twice but she prays to a god she doesn’t believe in that they’re still using protection. Nick is there, sometimes, but usually he’s out _somewhere_. She’s used to that — to not knowing where he goes. It hurts still but at least he’s not using. Nothing here to use.

She’s worn when she gets home that evening — tired and achy, with what feels like the tingle of a mild sunburn across the bridge of her noses. She toes off her boots by the door, padding into the kitchen with a long sigh.

They’re days away from the Nation’s arrival. From the melding, the union, the _chaos_. It’s been a long day of planning and negotiating — not with Walker but with the people. She’s helping because she’s the one that brokered the peace to begin with and because she can’t have Jake screwing this up. Troy, at least, is uninterested in all of this; he keeps himself busy with the militia, which is something that’ll need to be addressed eventually, but for now she’ll let him keep his toys.

Her stomach rumbles; it’s the only reason she doesn’t collapse into one of the kitchen chairs, why she makes her way to the fridge and pulls open the door. She stares into its depths with blank eyes. She’s never been much of a cook, passable but certainly no chef. At least they’ve still got electricity and refrigeration and all those things that make this task easier.

Even then, it’s not very appetizing. She could skip it, she thinks. The hunger is undeniable but there’s far worse pains in this world. Nodding to herself, she closes the fridge door, and turns around.

And almost jumps out of her skin.

_Troy needs a collar with a bell_.

She doesn’t get a chance to speak first. “Are you cooking?” he asks, his head tilted ever to the side like a curious dog. Do dogs wear collars with bells?

“I was thinking about taking a nap first,” she replies. “Long day.”

“I can cook.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “You can… nap.”

She stares at him for a long moment, examining his expression and his posture. While she doesn’t think he’s playing tricks, Madison doesn’t under why he’s offering either. He usually eats with his militia. Lives, sleeps, and breathes them.

“That’s a tempting offer,” she finally says.

“Just an act of kindness.” Which _God_ that’s almost enough to make her laugh. Almost, because there’s no one in the world that can beat her poker face. “You’ve been doing a lot.”

“A lot of things you don’t like.”

He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Not really my choice, is it? As long as Taqa and his people know that this is still _our_ ranch, gotta let it go.”

Her lips curl. She doesn’t reply. Troy will be a big enough headache when the actual integration starts — there’s no need to pick a fight with him over it before then. And, if possible, she’d much rather leave the task of reigning him in to Jake. Not that she thinks that’ll actually be possible. Jake may have better ideals than his father but he’s not strong enough to hold Troy’s leash.

Madison pushes herself away from the fridge. “I’d really appreciate it if you made dinner,” she says. Her voice is sweet like honey and she smiles at him the way she does when she wants something from him. Troy takes it hook, line, and sinker.

 

 

When she crawls into bed, the clock reads 6:03. When she crawls out, it reads 7:06. She yawns, running a hand through her hair before picking at her clothes, trying to get the wrinkles to lay flat. Breathing deep, the scent of food — of something warm and meaty and delicious — hits her like a freight train. She raises her brows. Troy _actually_ cooked.

The smell only grows stronger as she gets closer to the kitchen. Troy is filling a glass with water — _oh_ , that’s another thing to worry about, but not right now — and there’s a pan sitting on the counter.

“Meatloaf,” he says, looking over his shoulder at her.

_Simple_. “It smells good.” Simple or not, it’s a home-cooked meal. How many of those are left in this world?

“Family recipe. It’s a little something more than ketchup, meat, and breadcrumbs.” He sets his cup of water down on the counter and grabs a couple of plates. Madison takes that as her cue to sit down, watching as he plates and brings them over to the table.

“Thank you.”

It’s an oddly domestic scene, she decides as he takes the seat across from her. The only thing that would make it more so is if he asked, ‘And how was your day, honey?’ Which is…

_Domestic_ but _not_ platonic.

Hm.

He is decidedly restrained as he eats. He uses his knife and fork and keeps a napkin over his leg. An unremarkable sight if she didn’t see him eat at the canteen everyday. Manners, control — those things are uncharacteristic of the Troy she knows. But he’s like that around her, been that way since the beginning or tried to be that way at least. Been that way since he brought her a tray of breakfast and stumbled over his words like a nervous schoolboy.

She takes a bite of her food instead of asking why. She doesn’t stop watching him though.

Madison isn’t sure if the silence is awkward. She’s not the best judge of things like that but she can’t imagine that Troy’s much better than her. They’re birds of a feather but where he’s rage and impulse, she’s cruelty and calculation. That’s why he works so well on her leash and why she doesn’t trust him like this. Off-leash, normal, mundane. _Domestic_.

“What did you do today?” she asks, breaking the silence. It doesn’t improve the situation but at least it distracts her from that line of thought.

“Patrolled,” he answers, not looking up from his food. “It was quiet though. No dead.”

“A hopeful sign.”

He shakes his head. “Meaningless. We’re far out from any population centers. They’re gonna have to wander quite a bit out of their way to get to us. There’s easier food to find.”

She raises an eyebrow. He sounds like a scientist — unsurprising, it’s what he likes to think of himself as. Nick likes to complain about that but she doesn’t mind. It’s interesting. It’s _useful_ , disdainful methodology or not. “Do you think this will ever end?”

He purses his lips. She takes a bite of her food as he thinks, observing the minute changes in his expression. “No,” is his eventually response.

He picks up his glass of water, taking a sip. He doesn’t leave it at that though. He can’t. “It’s in all of us — the infection. No matter how you die, whether bitten or not, you turn. No one’s immune. The only way to stop is to destroy the brainstem. This is our extinction. The animals, the plants — they’ll be fine as long as it doesn’t cross the species barrier. It’ll die with the last of us. When there’s no more humans, there’ll be no more infection.” He leans back in his chair, a wry grin on his lips as he looks at her. “But humans are a stubborn breed. We don’t go quietly. We don’t go fast. We’ll go kicking and screaming, worn out and ragged, generations from now. Good, bad — our morals or lack thereof won’t be the legacy we leave.”

Madison hums. “Depressing.”

“I’m happy to be wrong.”

She doesn’t think he would be. He’s a chaotic individual and he takes delight in that. His ‘research’ is a telling example. A scientist who cared would’ve searched for a cure; instead, a boy playing pretend just murdered people and timed how long it took them to come back.

But she doesn’t say that. Rather, she nods to his plate, and asks, “Are you done?”

His eyes flick between her and his plates. He shovels down the rest of his food and then nods, pushing his plate towards her. She grabs it and takes it over to the sink, flicking on the water. She ignores the pit of dread in her stomach as she watches it run, choosing to focus on the task at hand.

She rinses one and reaches for the towel, finding it gone and Troy by her side. “Here,” he says, holding out his, “let me.” She blinks at him but, after a second, hands him the plate. If he wants to be helpful, she won’t complain.

When the dishes are done, she leans back against the counter and lets her eyes wander around the room. For once, she doesn’t look at Troy. She can feel him — feel the nervous energy radiating off of him as he stands beside, feel the weight of his gaze on her shoulders. God, she could use a drink. Of course, she’s pretty sure he’d freak if she got out anything harder than wine.

Maybe…

“Are you going back out?”

“Back out?”

She glances up at him. “Yeah. Any late night patrols, boar hunts, or rendezvous?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

_Damn_.

Well, they do have wine.

Pushing herself away from the counter, she steps over to the cupboard where she placed the wine — _after_ she fished it out from beneath a bathroom sink — and pulls out a bottle. “Do you want some?” she asks, eyeing him, watching his expression tell it all.

“No, uh… I’d rather…”

“It won’t kill you.” She shoots him a teasing grin and grabs two glasses. As she pours, she says, “And even if you have the lowest tolerance imaginable, one glass won’t get you drunk.”

She holds one out to him, eyebrow raised, lips curled, _expectant_. Will he take it or will he not? That there’s even a moment of hesitation — of consideration — makes her feel just a little bit better. _And then he takes it_.

She wasn’t expecting that.

She raises her glass to him, taking a sip of the dark liquid. He stares at his own glass suspiciously but she doesn’t push it. It’s a miracle alone that he accepted.

Turning on her heel, she doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t tell him she’s leaving or where she’s going but she fully expects him to follow and he does, trailing at her heels like an obedient dog. He follows her into the TV room. She’s not actually sure if there’s anything in here worth watching, she’s only ever been here when Jeremiah showed her the old commercials, but she feels it’s worth the shot.

She sets her glass down on a table, turning to the shelves upon shelves of miscellaneous crap. Records and books and, yes, discs and tapes. She trails her fingers over a few, reading the labels, and watching Troy out of the corner of her eye. He stands there, holding his glass, looking like he’s debating whether to bolt through the door or the window.

Before he can do that though, she asks, “Have any preferences?” His blue eyes snap to her. _Wild animal warning_. “You know this better than me.”

“This…?”

“Movies? Might as well take advantage of the chances we’ve got now.”

His lips form an ‘o’ shape but the shock quickly fades — or he masks it, at least — and wanders over to her, peering over her shoulder at the selection she’s looking at. “Well, I don’t know what you like,” he murmurs, almost mumbling.

She hums. “No disaster flicks. Or horror movies. The most I could do is the face-melting scene in the first Indiana Jones movie.”

“The what?” he asks with a furrowed brow.

Madison can’t help that incredulous scoff that escapes her. “You’ve never seen Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark?”

He shakes his head.

“Damn.”

“Uh… I think we have it though,” he says. “Jake was a movie buff. I preferred being outside.”

He steps around her, the wine sloshing in his glass. Before he can search for the movie, she places her hand over his. He blinks at her but doesn’t fight her when she takes the glass away. Just like that, he’s back to searching, digging through library of unsorted media, eventually coming up with a dusty looking VHS. “Is this it?” he asks, handing it to her.

Wine glass in one hand, VHS tape in the other, she nods. She shoots him an approving smile and she can see the light the sparks to life in his eyes. “Put it on?” She hands it back to him, watching as he scurries to the TV. She leisurely follows, sinking down on the couch and leaning into the arm.

The screen comes to life in vivid colors, the sound of the tape not far behind. As it starts to play through the ads, Troy gets up and approaches her. She pats the couch by her side. He scrutinizes her face but she doesn’t allow her expression to change. She wears the small smirk she’s worn since he accepted the glass of wine. Perhaps he should be cautious of that but, if something in him tells him to, he must be ignoring it because he takes the seat. She hands him back his glass.

The ads are still running, promoting movies that have long since come and gone, so rather than watch the TV, she watches him. He’s not paying attention either, staring into the dark depths of his glass.

“It’s not poison,” she says, picking up her own glass.

“It’s harmed people though.”

She raises hers to her lips, taking a long sip. When she speaks again, her lips are stained pink. “So have we.”

He looks at her. He looks at her _lips_. He raises his glass up, saying, “More than we have.” Then, he takes a sip.

Even if he makes a face when it hits his tongue, she’s impressed. Impressed by the boldness of his statement, the bravery of his action, and the fact that he swallows. He doesn’t even complain, just sets the glass down by his feet and settles back into the couch. She puts her glass on the table, scooting closer to him. The opening shot of the movie appears on the TV but neither of them are paying attention. The _wild animal_ look returns for a brief second but she ignores it.

“I’m proud of you,” she says.

“Madison…”

She snorts. “What do you want from me? Because I’m not interested in being your mother and, based on tonight, I don’t think that’s what you want either.” Not anymore, at least.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

She places a finger on his lips. “ _Don’t_ lie to me.”

He blinks at her. Just as she thinks he’s going to leap from the couch, run away from this evening, his softens. He pushes her hand away, resting his own on her thigh. Briefly, she wonders if he’s ever done that before — been that close to a woman before — but then he speaks, low but unafraid.

“Do what then?”

Her answer isn’t in words. She doesn’t need them to convey her message. Her lips on his is clear enough — he doesn’t even need a second to understand. And, oh yes, she’s pretty sure this is his first kiss — sloppy and spit-wet but so what? The night is young and teaching him a thing or two doesn’t sound so bad.


End file.
